Selby Speaks (6 page)

“The waves, the waves

I’ll not forget —

I don’t know when

I’ve been so wet.

I wouldn’t want to place a bet

The waves won’t get me yet —

Unless a shark gets me first.”

“He was doing okay till the last line,” Dr Trifle said. “All those
forgets
,
wets, bets
and
yets
but then up pops a
first
and it doesn’t rhyme. What sort of poetry is that, dear?”

“It’s the kind of poetry they write these days,” Mrs Trifle said. “It sort of rhymes but, on the other hand, it sort of doesn’t. It’s much easier to write.”

“It’s dreadful if you ask me,” Selby thought knowing that no one was about to ask him.

“Next we have a not-so-famous dead poet named Whittlebone Jones,” Malcolm Mumbles said, sitting on a frisky horse in a dry riverbed and trying to face the camera as the horse turned in circles. “He lived in the days when poetry rhymed all the way through. He spent his life roaming the outback, appearing at drovers’ campfires. He’d ask for a mug of tea and
a chunk of damper and then he’d recite his poetry before disappearing again.”

Malcolm Mumbles’ horse darted away for a second and then galloped back to the camera.

“We know that Whittlebone Jones wrote a lot of poetry,” Malcolm Mumbles said with a little bit of panic in his voice, “but all of it is lost except one poem. And that’s the one that tells of the tragic accident that ended his roaming. It goes like this:

‘I rode onto a silvery plain,

The sun was setting o’er the cane,

I rode through grass and rode through gorse,

And then, alas, fell off my horse.'”

“Not a great poem,” Mrs Trifle said.

“Maybe that’s why he’s not-so-famous,” Dr Trifle said, “instead of just plain famous.”

“Well, he deserves to be more famous than Clancy of the Undertow,” Mrs Trifle said. “Even if there’s only one of his poems left.”

“We know very little about the last years of Whittlebone Jones,” Malcolm Mumbles said over his shoulder as the horse turned around again. “We only know that he lived out his final years in this house,” he added, holding up a
photograph of an old house. “We don’t know where the house is, which is a pity because the lost manuscripts of Whittlebone Jones are probably hidden there somewhere.”

“With any luck they’ll stay lost,” Selby thought as the horse threw Malcolm Mumbles into the riverbed. “But hold the show! Galloping galahs! That house is Bunya-Bunya Breezes! I’d recognise that funny-shaped chimney anywhere!” Selby thought, remembering the photo of the house that Mrs Trifle had on her desk in the folder marked
New Recreation Centre
. “That’s the empty house down the street. It’s the one the council is going to turn into a recreation centre.”

An hour later when the Trifles went out for a walk, Selby phoned Malcolm Mumbles.

“I saw your program today, Mal,” Selby said, “and I just wanted to tell you that I know where Whittlebone Jones’ house is. It’s an empty house right at the end of my street. What’s the reward?”

“Who said anything about a reward?” Malcolm Mumbles asked nastily.

“Well …
I
did,” Selby said, trying not to be nasty back. “If I tell you where the house is and
you find the lost manuscripts, you’ll be a rich man. It’s only fair that I should get a reward.”

“The manuscripts are not worth anything,” Malcolm said. “I only want them for the sentimental value.”

“Well if that’s the case I’ll find them myself,” Selby said, knowing that he couldn’t because his paws weren’t suited to taking apart floors and walls to look for lost manuscripts, “and keep all the sentimental value for myself. Goodbye.”

“Hold on!” Malcolm yelled. “Just a minute! Okay, okay, I’ll see about a reward. Just give me your name and address and we’ll send you … we’ll see what we can send you.”

“Just send the reward to Mr S. Trifle,” Selby said, “at Bunya-Bunya Crescent in Bogusville. I’m at number —”

“So Whittlebone Jones’ house is at the end of Bunya-Bunya Crescent in Bogusville!” Malcolm Mumbles screamed.

“I didn’t say that,” Selby said.

“Yes you did! You said it was at the end of your street and you said you live in Bunya-Bunya Crescent,” Malcolm Mumbles said. “You
also said the house was empty! Even Blind Freddy could find it from those clues! So long, you mug, I’m going to find the lost manuscripts of Whittlebone Jones!”

“He tricked me,” Selby said, wondering if Blind Freddy was a little-known dead poet or a famous one. “But I know what I’ll do. As soon as the sun is up I’ll nip down to Bunya-Bunya Breezes and start looking.
He
has to come all the way from the city. I’ll beat him to it.”

Early next morning Selby approached Bunya-Bunya Breezes and heard the sounds of ripping and banging. Inside was a mob of people pulling the old house apart looking for the lost manuscripts.

“Crikey!” Selby thought. “They’re wrecking the new recreation centre.” And before he could stop himself he’d yelled out, “Stop it at once! Stop this madness!”

Suddenly the ripping and banging stopped and Malcolm Mumbles poked his head out a window.

“Who said that?” he asked, seeing only a dog with a purple face. “Okay, back to work everybody.”

“Mrs Trifle will be furious. I’ve got to stop them,” Selby thought, “even if it means talking and
(gulp)
giving away my secret!”

But just then there was a great cracking noise and the roof began to fall in.

“Everybody out!” Malcolm Mumbles yelled and poetry lovers dived out windows and jumped through holes in the walls till the last boards had fallen and Bunya-Bunya Breezes lay in ruins.

“We looked everywhere,” Malcolm said with tears in his eyes. “They weren’t in the walls or the ceilings or in the floors or even in the dirt under the house. The lost manuscripts are still lost.”

“And so am I,” Selby said, slinking off home. “It’s all my fault. They destroyed the new recreation centre because of me. I don’t deserve to live with such wonderful people as Dr and Mrs Trifle. I’m just not worthy of them. I’ll have to tell them what happened. It doesn’t matter that I’ll be their servant for life. I don’t even deserve to be their slave.”

And Selby was feeling so guilty as he lay there on the carpet looking up at the Trifles that
he was about to say, “All right, enough’s enough. I, Selby, your unworthy dog, am able to talk as well as the next man,” when Mrs Trifle picked up the photograph of Bunya-Bunya Breezes and looked at it.

“It’s a pity,” she said. “It was the last house around here with one of those funny-shaped chimneys, and now it’s gone. A hundred years ago all the houses in the bush had them.”

“Crumbs,” Selby thought. “I thought it
had
to be Whittlebone Jones’ house because of the chimney and now I find out that there were houses like that all over the country. Things are getting worse by the minute.”

“It had to go anyway,” Dr Trifle said, “to make way for the new recreation centre that’s going to be built. We should be thankful that it didn’t cost anything to have it torn down.”

“Yes,” Mrs Trifle said, not seeing Selby’s ears prick up, “it was good of Malcolm Mumbles to help us out. I don’t know why he did it but I think I’ll ask the council if we can name the new recreation centre The Malcolm Mumbles Sports and Leisure Centre.”

“Yes,” said Dr Trifle. “What a good idea.”

“Life’s just not fair,” Selby thought as he trotted off for his evening’s walk. “That recreation centre ought to be named after me. Besides, Selby’s Sports and Leisure Centre even sounds better.”

“Galloping galaxies!” cried Dr Trifle’s old friend and amateur astronomer, Percy Peach, as he peered through the doctor’s brand new binocular bilateral super close-up tracking telescope which poked up through a huge hole in the Trifles’ garage roof. “Either there’s dust on your telescope or a tiny piece of Haydee’s Comet just broke away when it rounded Mars! Have a look!”

“It’s hopeless trying to show me,” said Dr Trifle, nearly asleep in his chair and wondering how astronomers managed to stay
up all night to study the stars. “I never should have built that silly telescope. All I ever see is eyelashes: gigantic blinking eyelashes. The sky is full of them.”

“It’s right near Sirius, the Dog Star. I’ll calculate where it’s going” Percy who hated calculators and biros, said as he whipped out a pad of paper, a bottle of ink and a quill pen.

Percy began scribbling lines and lines of letters and columns and columns of numbers at great speed and then throwing the papers on the floor where Selby lay trying to sleep.

“What a pity. It seems our new comet is going to zoom off harmlessly into space,” Percy said to the nearly-sleeping Dr Trifle. “I had hoped it would come crashing into the atmosphere and make lots of pretty streaks and light up the sky like Cracker Night, the way comets do sometimes. Could you please check my calculations while I climb up on the roof to make sure it wasn’t just on the telescope?”

“Poor Dr Trifle needs his sleep,” Selby said, waking up and stretching and seeing that Dr Trifle was finally asleep in his chair and that Percy Peach had gone. “That Percy kept him
awake too long. It’s not good for him. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Oh, good! Now’s my chance to look through Dr Trifle’s new telescope.”

Selby ran to the telescope and peeped up through it, not seeing eyelashes — because he didn’t have any — but seeing instead a gigantic head that looked like some sort of monster from the
Revolt of the Universe
movies.

“Aaaaarrrrrgggggh!” screamed Selby at the sight of Percy.

“Aaaaarrrrrgggggh!” screamed Percy back as he saw Selby’s tiny eyes peering up at him.

And before Selby realised that it was only Percy checking the telescope for dust, he jumped backwards, knocking over the inkwell — all of which would have been okay if he hadn’t got a tiny drop of ink on one toenail.

“You frightened the life out of me!” Percy screamed at Dr Trifle who was now waking up and wondering what all the screaming was about. “I saw your eyes in the telescope and thought you were some sort of monster.”

“Am I?” Dr Trifle asked, still wondering what was happening.

“Of course you’re not. Don’t be silly,” Percy said, gathering together all the papers in one big clump and thrusting them into Dr Trifle’s hands. “There’s no dust on your telescope. This can only mean one thing.”

“What?” Dr Trifle said, rubbing his eyes and not really listening to anything his old friend was saying.

“That a tiny piece of Haydee’s Comet has broken away and become a comet itself,” Percy said. “Don’t you ever listen to anything I say? Never mind. Just check my calculations and see if I’m right that the new comet is going to miss the earth altogether.”

Dr Trifle looked over the lines and lines of letters and columns and columns of numbers.

“Ahah! I think you’ve gone wrong here. You missed a number on your second last page,” Dr Trifle said, pointing to the ragged number 1 that looked more like a dog’s inky toenail print than a real number 1. “In fact if we recalculate you’ll see this little comet is just about to zoop straight down to earth!” Dr Trifle said, finishing the calculation on his pocket calculator. “Not only to earth but
directly to Bogusville! It should light up the sky like Cracker Night!”

“Heavenly bodies!” Percy Peach screamed as he studied the number 1 he’d missed and noticed how much it looked like a dog’s-toenail-dipped-in-ink mark. “We’re in the perfect position to see it. We’ll get the best view of anyone on earth! They’ll have to name it after us! It’ll be called the Peach–Trifle Comet! There’s no time to lose! You look through one of these eyepieces and I’ll look through the other. Before the night is out, the comet will be here and we’ll be famous!”

“Cripes!” Selby thought as he crept out of the garage to his favourite hiding place: the garden shed. “Now poor Dr Trifle’s going to stay up all night looking for a comet that isn’t even coming towards earth. And it’s all my fault for stepping in that ink. Oh, woe woe woe. I wish he’d just forget all about it and go to bed. If only I could think of something. If only a brilliant idea would pop into my brain. Hmmmmmmmmmm.”

Selby climbed through the hole in the garden shed.

“I’ve got it!” he cried as a brilliant idea popped into his brain. “I’ve got it!”

Selby lifted box after box off the shelves in front of him till he found one labelled, “Leftover Sparklers from Cracker Night".

“I think I’ve just found the Peach–Trifle Comet!” Selby said, grabbing a sparkler from the box.

Selby climbed quietly up onto the garage and peeked down through a crack in the roof to see the two men, each peering up through a different nocular of the binocular bilateral super close-up tracking telescope.

“All I have to do is light this sparkler and hold it in my teeth and then make a comet-like leap over the end of the telescope,” Selby thought as he lit the sparkler and made a perfect comet-like leap over the telescope.

“That’s it!” Percy screamed. “Did you see it?”